In the Aftermath
by shilo1364
Summary: *Harry Potter fanfic* Harry defeats Voldemort, because everyone needs him to. But what happens after, when everyone *keeps* needing him? How does he cope with living, after the war? Very dark. Read at your own risk. *trigger warning* suicide attempts, suicide, depression. ignores epilogue. Oneshot. potential Harry/Draco that never pans out. COMPLETE
**Um. This isn't what I usually write. Well, not what I usually post, anyway. It just sorta happened. It's dark. Very dark. Read at your own risk. *trigger warning* suicide attempts**

Harry did his best. He hated Dumbledore, for awhile. For making him go back. But they needed him – his friends needed him. And so he went back, back into that body wracked with pain. He fought on; killed Voldemort.

And when it was done, and the Death Eaters had been rounded up, no one questioned him when he needed some time alone. And when he tried to slit his wrists, in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and found that he couldn't, he knew that they needed him still. So he forced himself to get up, laying the razor gently back in its hiding place, and held his head high as he walked out to help rebuild.

And if he didn't smile anymore, well, that was his prerogative. He was a war hero, savior of the wizarding world – he didn't need to smile. So he went on, grim faced and determined. And he nodded to Ginny when he found her snogging Dean Thomas, and toasted them at their wedding. And he congratulated Ron and Hermione on their marriage, the birth of their first child. He went to work as an Auror, determinedly chasing down Dark wizards, making the world a safer place, one arrest at a time.

And if he still didn't smile – well, no one questioned it anymore.

And when he tried again and again to end it all, and found the blade too dull, the rope too short, the poison not potent enough, no one questioned it still. There were still so many Dark wizards, former Death Eaters, enemies of one kind or another. There was always someone else for them to pin them on, these assassination attempts. Harry didn't bother correcting them. He just gravely thanked the healers and went on.

And if his eyes were dull now, and the grim set of his jaw never softened – well, who could relax, really, when their lives were constantly in jeopardy?

So Harry went on.

And when he realized, one dark day, darker than usual, that he could no longer shove aside these confusing feelings for Malfoy, he hesitated. Then he shrugged. There didn't seem to be anything to lose. So he confronted him.

It was only after Malfoy had laughed in his face that Harry realized that, yes; he had maybe still had something to lose.

But he was no stranger to loss. So he went on.

He hoped he would get over it – this thing he felt, whenever Malfoy was around. But he didn't. So he avoided him. It got easier – eventually, it was just another habit. The moment his name came up, or he caught a flash of pale hair, he turned and stalked out. And if he left people mid-conversation – mid-word, even – well, he was a bit odd, wasn't he? But he was their Golden Boy, so they never questioned him.

And so he went on. His life became an endless blur of gray; days faded into weeks, months, years. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed or even smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to.

He got an invitation to Malfoy's wedding. Everyone at the Ministry did – it was to be the event of the season. He wasn't planning to go, but Hermione badgered him into it. She'd guessed, he thought, how he felt about Malfoy. Or thought she had. Maybe she thought it would bring him closure. He knew it wouldn't, but he didn't have the energy to argue with her. So he allowed her and Ron to drag him in their wake.

He was a shadow of himself now. He knew he'd gotten thin, lately. He couldn't be bothered to eat. He couldn't be bothered to do most things.

He hung back in the shadows, watching the glittering people swirl around him. He used to know them, but he didn't have the energy for friends anymore. No one noticed him as he stood there, nursing a glass of sparkling water.

He watched Malfoy spinning his bride on the dance floor, glittering brighter than everyone else. Even that sight didn't stir his emotions as it once would have. He didn't realize he was staring until Malfoy looked up and caught his gaze, eyes widening in shocked recognition. Malfoy wrenched his gaze away, then turned back to sweep it up and down Harry's thin frame, frowning. Harry turned away, setting his glass on the table beside him. He couldn't stay in this room any longer. The heat of it stifled him; the glittering masses swirled dizzily around him, making him feel faint. He slunk along the wall, slipped out the door, and crunched quickly down the Manor's walk. The moment he felt the wards fizzle out behind him, he turned on the spot and apparated.

* * *

He walked in the door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, where he'd lived since leaving Hogwarts. It didn't feel like home – it never had. But now he felt the walls closing in on him, threatening to suffocate him. He turned to walk back out the door, then paused to scribble a quick note to Ron and Hermione, telling them not to worry – that he needed a change of scene, needed to be alone for awhile – and that he was traveling indefinitely, to clear his head. He'd be back when he straightened some things out. He left it propped in the center of the kitchen table. They'd be sure to see it, when they came to find him. He grabbed his trusty Firebolt – bought to replace the one lost during the war – and closed the door firmly behind him. He stopped, on the threshold, to look back. Then he shouldered the broom and apparated once more.

* * *

He strode across the rocky beach, the pounding surf drowning out the crunch of his footsteps. He stopped for a moment just to watch the waves crashing over the rocks, the constant thunder that had soothed him countless times, when he felt that ache in his chest, washing over him. He closed his eyes. _I'm sorry. I tried. I did. But I can't do it anymore. And they don't need me now._

Then he opened his eyes, leapt onto his broom, and kicked off into the sky.

He flew in lazy loops at first, getting used to being back on a broom, then circled higher. He pushed himself, faster and faster, higher than he'd ever gone. The broom strained under him, and he pushed harder. Up and up, until he was gasping for breath, tears streaming down his frozen face. Higher, until each breath was torn from him, whirled into the wind that buffeted him, and his head pounded louder than the crashing surf below. And then he dove.

Down he flew, down and down, faster than he'd ever gone in his life. The wind whistled past him, tearing at his robes, and still he pushed himself. He'd never gone this fast – he'd always had to pull up, to be sure not to hit the ground. This time he didn't even try. He dove straight down, into the sea, and kept diving. Now it was water that rushed past him, not wind, but he just squinted his eyes and pushed harder. And as he felt himself grow lightheaded, and spots hovered before his eyes, he didn't falter. Everything seemed to slow and stretch, wavering oddly before him. The fire in his head was now matched by a fire in his lungs, but Harry simply waited.

And as everything faded to black around him, Harry knew that he would finally be allowed to rest. His lips curved into a gentle smile, and then there was nothing.

* * *

Draco hadn't seen Potter in awhile. Which wasn't odd, exactly. He'd just gotten used to glimpsing him, usually just before Potter hurried from the room. He frowned as he found himself searching for him, whenever he entered a place he knew Potter had once frequented. Searching, but never finding him. Draco began to worry.

Eventually, he went to Granger. Surely she would know. He made sure to drawl his question, burying his worry beneath scorn and insult. Granger eyed him for a moment, biting her lip. Draco worried suddenly that she had seen through his mask. He braced himself for the insults, but they never came. Instead Granger reached into her desk and pulled out a note. She handed it to him wordlessly. His eyes widened as he read the hastily scrawled message.

"Granger!" he hissed, "tell me you didn't take this at face value. Tell me you searched for him!"

She just frowned at him. "Of course we have." She shrugged. "But I can't find a trace of him. He clearly doesn't want to be found."

Draco stared at her. "And that's it? You're just going to wait for him to contact you?"

She sighed. "I've exhausted every means I can find – magical and muggle. He's gone, Malfoy. It's like he doesn't even exist anymore."

Draco paled, and dropped suddenly into the chair he'd ignored. "Merlin," he whispered.

Granger leaned toward him, worry clear in her eyes. "Malfoy? What is it – what do you know?"

"I – nothing. I – I have to go." He stumbled out of the office. Granger frowned after him, but Draco didn't care. He was seeing Potter before him, as he'd looked at Draco's wedding. Thin – too thin. Dark circles under his dull, slightly glazed eyes. The way he'd stared at Draco as if he were looking through him – as if he didn't see him at all. The way he'd turned and left the party. Like a man walking to his death.

Draco willed his feet to go faster. He ignored Astoria's shrill greeting when he walked through the Manor doors. He'd married her for her money and connections – that didn't give her any claims on his attention. He strode into the library, then into the hidden library behind that. He pulled the book from the shelf – old, worn, pulsing with Dark magic. He studied the spell inside, then nodded. He had everything on hand.

* * *

Draco stirred the cauldron once more, then nodded as the color leached out of the thick liquid inside. He scooped out a cupful, held it to the light, then downed it in one gulp. It tasted worse than it smelled, and burned a line of liquid fire down his throat, but Draco hardly noticed. He whipped his wand in a complicated pattern, enunciating each syllable of the spell clearly. Then it was done, and he had an instant to doubt, before he felt the potion grab him. It whirled him into what he assumed was an apparition, in the center of a golden stream of light. He landed on a desolate stretch of beach. There was no sign of Potter. Draco frowned, glancing around. Then he caught a flash of gold behind one of the rocks at the edge of the water. He hurried toward it, and gasped at what he saw.

 _Merlin, no!_ he thought, sinking to his knees. But it was clear there was nothing he could do. Potter was white now – pale as a ghost. The dark smudges under his eyes stood out starkly. His glasses were gone, his dull green eyes stared glassily at nothing. He lay limply in the sand, a rag doll, broken and flung away by the sea. His lips were curved into a gentle smile.

Draco, who suddenly realized that he hadn't seen Potter smile since before the war, felt a tear slide down his cheek. "Potter," he whispered. "Potter, you _idiot_." Then he stood, shouted it into the wind, shaking his fist at the uncaring sky. But the wind whirled his words away, and the sky remained unmoved. Draco sank back to his knees, lifting Potter gently from the sand. He brushed a strand of hair off Potter's cheek, and let the tears fall. Then he leaned in and kissed Potter's smiling mouth. His lips were cold, and Draco felt something snap inside him. He walked a few steps up the beach, then apparated them both away.

* * *

Granger started to scold him, as he staggered, dripping, into her office, then her eyes widened as she saw what he held. The color drained from her face and she clapped her hands over her mouth. "Oh, _Harry,_ " she whispered. Weasley turned, startled, and sat down, white-lipped, in his chair.

"He's smiling," Weasley said flatly. Granger squeaked, and Draco saw guilt flash through her eyes. He couldn't help but think she deserved to feel it.

* * *

They buried him, in the end, next to his parents. It was a small ceremony – just Potter's closest friends. They didn't want the media to get wind of it, nor the masses. They would think they owned a piece of him in death – just as they had in life.

Weasley was there, of course, and Granger. The rest of the Weasley's, Lovegood, Longbottom. And Draco. His eyes never left Potter's face. And when they'd lowered him into the ground, and the living began to mingle, Draco left. He didn't speak to anyone – didn't look at their faces. He went home to his cold Manor, his silly wife, his loveless marriage. And he knew he would carry the image of Potter's smile with him to the grave.

~The End~


End file.
